


Reckless But Honest

by MilenaDaniels



Series: Reckless But Honest [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angry Stiles Stilinski, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Derek Feels Guilty, Emotionally Hurt Derek Hale, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, M/M, POV Stiles, Post-Episode: s06e11 Said the Spider to the Fly, Recovery, Season/Series 06B, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Starvation, Stiles Stilinski Takes Care Of Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 06:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11800050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilenaDaniels/pseuds/MilenaDaniels
Summary: Months of researching, weeks of putting a plan together (admittedly longer than he usually had), 3 days of springing into action, and a scant 9 minutes in and out of the building where Derek was kept.So. That was it then. Derek in trouble, Derek saved. FBI and SWAT evaded. Good job, team. Time for a well deserved snack break and nap.If only his racing mind would allow for something like that.





	Reckless But Honest

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the lyrics of Sleeping At Last's Anger.
> 
> Also, I haven't watched the show in...4 seasons? I've mostly kept up through Tumblr so any inaccuracies regarding canon can be traced back to that, but honestly who cares about canon anymore at this point :P

Months of researching, weeks of putting a plan together (admittedly longer than he usually had), 3 days of springing into action, and a scant 9 minutes in and out of the building where Derek was kept. It was a long time to live with such a poignant sense of urgency driving your every step, setting the rhythm of your heartbeats, manipulating your neurochemical responses. Insomnia, hyperfocus, surges of adrenaline - those side effects had served him well, especially on the two-hour car ride out of Dodge, as it were, on about three hours of sleep in the past two days. Derek, as always, had been utterly useless in that capacity, having opted to pass out due to his injuries pretty much as soon as the wheels crunched over gravel. 

He woke up briefly to assist Stiles in hauling his nearly dead weight into the nondescript motel room in some suitably unknown town near the national forest, but he was out moments after hitting the mattress. Having been bloody, dirty, and very still, Stiles had stopped the car about 20 minutes out, when he felt relatively sure they weren’t being followed, to make sure Derek hadn’t actually died, and with a bit of poking and prodding, he determined they were fine to continue. Now, in the motel room, he enacted part two of the poking and the prodding (as well as he could given the immovable 200 pounds of werewolf he was dealing with). What wounds Stiles could see - and there were a nausea-inducing ton of them - were healing well enough, and he was fairly sure Derek was just sleeping it off. 

So. That was it then. Derek in trouble, Derek saved. FBI and SWAT evaded. Good job, team. Time for a well deserved snack break and nap.

If only his racing mind would allow for something like that.

With an irate sigh, Stiles threw himself on the other double bed and slid his phone out of his pocket. He could really use Scott right now, or Lydia, or even Malia. But he hadn’t called them two months ago. He hadn’t called when he had a plan. He just...never called. What would he say now? “Hey guys, you’ll never guess what  _ just _ happened two months ago…”

They’d made a promise, all of them, that they’d call him if ever there was trouble brewing in Beacon Hills. And they hadn’t called. They did call to catch up at least once a week but reports were that everything was calm back in the epicentre of hell. So, what? Stiles would call back home to let everyone know he found the supernatural drama all on his own without the need for a cursed town? He would rope them into leaving almost certain death to come risk it in fucking Virginia instead? Besides, there was a non-negligible chance their response would be “Damn, that sucks for Derek. It’s not your problem, though?” and somehow Stiles knew he wouldn’t react well to that. So really, better all around that he had gone it alone. And it worked out! Mostly. He just didn’t really know where to go from here. Which is why he really needed to talk to Scott. But...wash, rinse, and repeat.

Grumbling with frustration, Stiles rubbed the edge of his phone roughly against his brow and then lobbed it at the end of the bed. He picked up the old school tv remote instead. Sleep could wait. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with the paranoia that Derek could stop breathing at any moment anyway.

 

* * *

 

Stiles woke up half-choking on a breath that didn’t know if it was coming or going. Despite the rude awakening, and the annoyance that he hadn’t been able to stay awake after all, he felt a bit more grounded. Less on edge. Out of habit (because he did manage to check at least 4 times before he conked out), he turned his head to the left and focused in on the line of Derek’s ribcage.

In and out, right on schedule. That was something.

The sun had barely been peeking over the horizon by the time they’d gotten into this motel room, but it looked to be high in the sky now. He should probably close those drapes better, but the sun didn’t seem to be bothering the rock that was Derek’s body any so who cared.

Having gotten (some of) the rest he needed, Stiles’ stomach reminded him about the snacking half of his recuperation formula. His phone confirmed it was mid-afternoon, so Derek had been sleeping for at least seven or so hours, counting the two in the car. Did that mean that he’d be likely to wake up soon - and would therefore freak out if he woke up to find Stiles gone for takeout - or did it mean he’d be out another twelve hours while Stiles slowly starved to death on the neighbouring bed?

Stiles was nothing if not solutions-oriented, and 32 minutes later, he was opening the motel door exactly four inches wide and obscuring any views of the room with his body while both he and the pizza delivery guy tried to pretend everything in this very sketchy situation was fine. It all worked out. Some toppings went askew when he tipped the box over to fit in the gap but mostly a success.

Halfway through the large pizza and two episodes of a MASH marathon, the sheets of Derek’s bed rustled. Hesitantly, Stiles transferred the pizza box from his lap onto the small table and took his feet off the other chair, letting his own settle back on all four legs. 

“Derek?”

Nothing.

“You waking up?” he whispered.

In response, Derek let out a sound between a gasp and a cry. Stiles was on his feet instantly but stopped a foot short of the bed. It was never a good idea to startle a half-aware werewolf.

“Derek? You back with me, dude?”

Derek’s eyes were screwed shut and his brows were drawn close together. He seemed to be trying to move up his elbow on the bed to prop himself up.

“Hey, you don’t need to get up. Just waking up is a win, trust me.”

Derek didn’t acknowledge him. One moment he was gasping in pain, the next he’d taken a large breath and forced his arm out to shove himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. Well, it would have been a sitting position if he hadn’t immediately curled down over his knees.

Without conscious thought, Stiles threw out his hands to catch his shoulders. Unfortunately, just-waking-up-Derek did not take kindly to people in his space.  _ Fortunately _ , he was too weak for his shove to really hurt and the other bed was kind enough to catch him.

“Okay. Gotcha. Sorry, no touchies. Probably got way too many touchies in the last while.” He winced at his lack of tact but he felt an irrational urge to ramble. “You doing okay? Good nap? Any immediate pains we need to address? How’s your stomach? You said it hurt when...earlier.”

Derek was very obviously tuning him out. To be fair, he was such an ashen colour that Stiles was reminded of the first time he become familiar with wolfsbane. Derek had been that exact shade right at the end when he demanded his arm be cut off. Actually, now that he thought about it...

“Hey,” Stiles tried again, his voice losing its comedic edge. “I know there’s a lot to process, but there are healing puncture wounds on your arms.” It took several seconds, but Derek absently looked down at his sleeve covered arms, so at least they were in the ballpark of being on the same page. “I saw them when I got you out of there. Did they inject you with wolfsbane? I’m not seeing any conspicuous black veins but I don’t know what else they would have given you. I’ve got some with me if we need to burn it.”

Derek, having had his fill of looking at bloodied and dirty sleeves, rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang.

“Hey, come on,” Stiles pestered. “This is important. Literally life-or-death import-”

Derek shook his head.

“No? No, you weren’t injected with wolfsbane?”

Derek paused, then shook his head again with more confidence. He coughed twice to clear his throat, then lifted his wrists.

“It was in the cuffs.” His voice sounded like he’d gargled glass. Which, given the deep burn marks on his neck, was probably entirely justified.

“Can it poison you that way?”

Derek shook his head again.

“So what did they inject you with? Can you tell if it’s still in your system?”

Derek’s brow furrowed. He looked over at Stiles, who followed his gaze down to his hands.

“It’s out of my system,” Derek said with a sigh Stiles couldn’t interpret. There were so many follow-up questions begging to be asked, but Stiles didn’t want to overwhelm him now that he was responsive.

“Three cheers for the werewolf metabolism!” He tried to muster up some actual cheer but, given the topic, his enthusiasm couldn’t quite get there. Instead, he looked over to the pizza forgotten on the table. “You’re probably star-” 

Without warning, Derek shot up to his feet and Stiles instinctively leaned back to make some room between the beds. That is, of course, until Derek realized being vertical had not been a good idea and his knees started to buckle. 

With a grunted “why do you always have to make everything more difficult?”, Stiles jumped up and threw an arm around Derek’s waist to try to keep him from falling, but when he tried to guide him back down to the bed, Derek found some reserves of strength and fought to stay up.

“What are you doing?” Stiles snapped.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Derek ground out like he had no idea his face was a mask of pain. Like it was normal to wake up from a torture coma to just get back up and shrug it off for a pee break.

“And it doesn’t occur to you that I am literally a foot away? And, like a normal person, you could say ‘Hey Stiles, buddy, mind giving me a hand across the room?’ instead of faceplanting into what has to be very suspect motel carpeting? Has it not occurred to you yet that stubbornly doing things on your own does  _ not _ achieve the best results?” Stiles pushed himself away as far as he could while still supporting him so Derek could see his face. “What is wrong with you? Genuine question. You are beat half to hell, I can’t even guess the other half of whatever they did to you because no one has ever faulted psychopaths of not being creative, and I’m standing right the fuck here. Offering help.”

“Stiles,” Derek bit. 

“What?” He fired back.

“Mind giving me a hand across the room?” He asked, nonchalantly. 

Fucking Derek Hale. Stiles sucked on his teeth for half a second and bit down the rest of what could have turned into a tirade.

“No, Derek,” he replied in kind. “I don’t mind giving you a hand across the room.” 

The two of them now working together, they shuffled around the second bed and got to the bathroom without incident. Just when Stiles was mustering up the objectivity to offer to help him relieve himself, Derek swung out of Stiles’ grip, levered himself into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

“Oh that’s just...super,” Stiles griped, gnashing his teeth and curling his hands into fists instead of throwing middle fingers at the door. Okay, he threw one. It’s not like werewolves have x-ray vision.

With a disgruntled sigh, he sat back down on the bed and waited. There was silence for an almost worryingly long time, but then Derek was moving again, and Stiles tried  _ not _ to listen but what are you gonna do. Actually - he turned the tv back up, MASH was still going. Silence fell again in the bathroom. Then, the sound of the shower curtain screeching against the metal rod as it was pulled back.

“Are you serious right now.”

The shower turned on.

“Dude, you can barely stand!” he yelled at the door.

The shower stayed on. 

“Fine, break your fucking neck. Why not? See if I care!” 

The shower curtain screeched again as it was closed.

Stiles went back to gnashing his teeth and resolved not to listen. Derek could slip and crash and get knocked out and Stiles wouldn’t budge from this fucking bed. Fuck him. He was a werewolf, he’d survive a broken neck. Not like he was going to drown in 2 inches of water. Unless he fell on his face maybe.

Someone was getting upset on MASH, but he didn’t know why. They started yelling and Stiles reflexively turned the volume down a couple bars. Derek had been in there ten minutes at least. No falls yet. But Stiles wasn’t about to make the mistake of thinking it would turn out fine.

Turning back to MASH, he found himself annoyed just looking at the characters. He didn’t know what was happening and he didn’t care. Instead of trying to focus, he got off the bed and pulled the second duffel onto the table - pointedly ignoring the first duffel emblazoned with the yellow “FBI” lettering on the side - and pulled out what he needed.

“Hey, ingrate,” he called through the bathroom door. “If you survive, there’s clean clothes at the door for you.”

No response.

Stiles rolled his eyes and dug out his phone. Now would be a great time to text Scott an update, or an all-caps rant. Instead, he googled keywords about the FBI op to see if they’d reported anything yet.

They had. 

With a heavy heart, Stiles clicked on the headline that read “FBI Uncover Paramilitary Operation in VA”. Quickly, he scanned the text and, much like at a Nicholas Sparks movie, he could have wept by the end. According to the article, the FBI had been pursuing a suspect out of North Carolina and across state lines into Virginia, but had instead found a militia of unknown origin and affiliation (good luck investigating their wolf fetish). The Bureau didn’t believe Derek was part of the militia, and there was no mention of an errant FBI intern having made off with their suspect, though Stiles had doubted they’d easily admit to that. It only said that Derek continued to be a person of interest. That was huge. Stiles hadn’t been with the FBI long but there was a significant importance placed on nomenclature and if they were treating him as a “person of interest”, it meant he’d been officially downgraded from “suspect”. Small mercies.

Stiles was so engrossed in trying to find other sources to make sure that writer hadn’t just paraphrased that he didn’t hear the shower turn off or the door open until it was closed again with a soft click. 

So, Derek survived the shower then. Bully for him. Stiles sighed guiltily, then realized with great annoyance that he’d been spending the past half day sighing almost constantly - in relief, in irritation, with pure fatigue. He’d become long-suffering. That thought made him snort, which was a nice change of pace.

The door to the bathroom opened again and there was Derek, leaning against the doorframe, still mostly damp and disheveled. The marks at his wrists and neck were healing quickly, but they were still a garish red against his otherwise pale skin. Otherwise, however, he looked like a brand new person. His skin was free from the dust and dried blood, his hair no long slicked flat with sweat, and his fifth-day-in-a-horror-movie clothes were replaced with the provided soft navy blue henley and dark gray sweatpants.

“Feel better?” Stiles asked pointedly, not able to keep the snit out of his voice.

Derek didn’t react to his attitude, he just nodded and said, “yeah, lots” in such a tone of relief that, just like that, most of Stiles’ irritation faded.

“Good. That’s good.”

Derek tugged on the hem of the shirt with a shadow of a grin. “It fits, this time.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not one of mine so that’s a given, and Wal-Mart doesn’t size things in ‘absolutely ridiculous’ so I just got some extra larges and hoped for the best.”

The smile on Derek’s face moved out of the shadows and inched its way into the bright light. It warmed Stiles and made him feel...squirmy.

“You hungry?” When Derek looked torn between a laugh and crying, he asked, “Were they - Did they even feed you?”

Derek huffed a dark laugh. “Not that I remember. But I don’t...know...how long I was there so I don’t know.”

“About six weeks.”

“Huh,” Derek replied, looking and sounding soul-weary all of a sudden. “Then they probably did at some point or I would have lost a lot more weight.”

Stiles nodded. “Well I’ve got pizza here though it’s gotten pretty cold. But if you haven’t eaten in a while, it would probably be best to start slow.”

Derek shrugged against the door jamb. He made no indications of wanting to sit down so Stiles didn’t offer. Instead, he went back to the duffel on the table and pulled out some honey packets and squeezed by Derek to fill the carafe of the coffee machine at the sink. He dumped the water in the tank and turned it on with an empty filter. When the water had boiled, Derek watched as Stiles emptied some into a mug along with three packets of honey.

“You do realize I’m a wolf, not a deer.”

“You do realize people who’ve been starved for a long time can die if they just jump into a buffet? This is the thing mostly likely to not shock your system if your stomach is too far gone.”

Derek wasn’t convinced and he tried to protest again. “You do realize I’m a werewolf and not a human. I’ve lost maybe ten pounds. They probably had an IV feeding me.”

“That’s not how that works. Your body have been given nutrients but your stomach hasn’t done anything in a long time and it’s gonna need an adjustment period. Can you please just sit your ass down and drink your honey water? If you can manage that, I’ll give you full reign on the pizza.”

Derek finally sat down at the table. The first few mouthfuls were spaced well apart, and by the look on his face, you could have sworn he was drinking mud. When he got tired of trying to force it, Derek just held the warm mug in his hands and sat back.

“How did you find me?”

Stiles smirked. “I told you, magic.”

Derek looked confused. 

“I said that on the ride here, you were in and out. But yeah, coincidence and google-fu mostly. Magic.” 

“You’re alone,” Derek remarked.

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted. “Not because the others didn’t want to come or anything. I just, haven’t gotten around to involving them yet.”

“Good.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at that. So predictable.

“How did you get...involved?” Derek asked.

He could have explained the lead-up - his internship, his classes, his petitioning the instructors to focus on the Hale case - but that wasn’t ready for public consumption yet.

Stiles shrugged. “You know me. Always at the wrong place at the right time.” Whether he accepted that answer at face value or just didn’t feel like pushing, Derek nodded. “Better question is, how the hell did you?” It had been nagging at him for weeks now. The FBI had plenty of information from the time Derek was accused of murder but nothing about what got him to that point in time. And though he’d shoved it to the back of his mind throughout the search and through the op, he found that the question refused to stay dormant any longer. He needed answers. So when Derek shrugged as if he was going to brush the question off too, a spike of annoyance sliced through Stiles.

“No, seriously, what happened? You... _ evolved _ , you drove off into the sunset with the girl, supposedly to leave all this shit behind you. Next thing we know, despite not hearing from you in ages,  _ she _ comes back alone, and then I find you captured and being tortured. Again.”

Derek frowned lightly. “Braeden went back?”

“Who cares!”

The frown stayed in place and was followed by a careless shrug. “We were on the road a bit, but she was chasing down leads on a case so we went our own ways.”

“I know that, we saw  _ her _ . It’s you who stayed MIA.”

“Just a second ago you were talking like it was a good thing I left.”

“It was!”

“But I was supposed to go back?”

“No,” Stiles insisted vehemently.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Then I don’t know what you’re angry about.”

“I’m not angry,” he said, “I’m just…”

“...disappointed,” they said at the same time, a silly, wry smile growing on both their faces. The tension dissipated and Derek went back to attempting to drink his honey water. But Stiles remained contemplative. Despite his assurance to the contrary, there was an anger roiling inside him but he couldn’t quite tease it apart or name it. There  _ was _ disappointment, not in the stern way a parent would be disappointed, but not having Derek around...it had been disappointing. He’d run into that feeling so many times around Scott, at school, at the preserve. Any number of things would remind him of Derek - a nice car, a particular shade of blue, someone playing chess, someone with his same initials carved on a library shelf. And each time he’d be struck with a strange...loneliness. But alongside that loneliness had come a sense of peace and contentment, and he’d used that feeling to get through so many of the hard moments in the past years, but now, nothing he did could call it up.

“You were supposed to be safe,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the dormant coffee machine. “You were supposed to...I don’t know, buy a farm or a ranch or a cabin by the sea. Maybe get a dog or something. A cat. You seem like a weird cat person. I don’t know. But that’s what you were supposed to do.” He could heard himself getting louder but he couldn’t pull himself back. “You were supposed to have a fucking vegetable garden and your biggest problem should have been something like porch repairs! Sock darning! For fuck’s sake, Derek, you were supposed to be okay!”

Derek frowned down at his mug, looking a little shell-shocked. “I didn’t exactly go looking for trouble.”

“You don’t need to, you’re a fucking magnet for it,” Stiles lamented, rubbing his hands over his face. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what’s the point, Stiles? What do you want to hear?” Derek threw back. “They found me. They  _ always _ find me. I outran them as long as I could. But it’s never far enough.” And wasn’t that just fucking heartbreaking. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“I want you to be  _ safe _ .”

“You’ve said that, but it doesn’t seem to be up to me now, does it?” Derek all but yelled, his eyes wide and helplessly angry. “Trust me, I would like nothing better than to kick back in a hammock for a day. I would love to get a fucking cat! I would give up actual years of my life to - fuck - to have a shitty studio apartment in the middle of nowhere where no one knew my name and I wasn’t sure to get maimed at least once a month.” Stiles’ throat was closing around unshed tears, but Derek still wasn’t getting it. “You think I wouldn’t? But I can’t have that. I can’t.”

“Then you come home,” Stiles ground out wobbily, finally looking up to catch Derek’s gaze and jabbing a finger into the tabletop to emphasize his point. “I...if you were out there somewhere, living a peaceful life, then fine. Beacon Hills is literally the mouth of hell, it’s unsafe, it’s a nightmare not all of us survived. But you didn’t escape that, it chased you down, and you were on the run for  _ months _ and not once did you call. Not once did you come back and ask for help.”

“Is that what this is?” Derek asked tiredly. “You’re pissed I didn’t call for backup?”

“No!” Stiles yelled, throwing himself out of his suddenly too-restrictive chair to stand. “I’m pissed you weren’t  _ ours _ .”

If Derek hadn’t looked punched out before, he certainly did now. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, pacing and biting on his lips to try to keep the tears of frustration, exhaustion, and grief at bay. “Do you have any idea what the past year has been like? We found out that you can get a were-anything if you really set your mind to it. A douchebag kid from our childhoods came back and infiltrated the pack. You would have hated him. You would have - Oh and I killed a guy. All on my own. Look, ma, no possession!” Derek got up from the table, so Stiles paced in the opposite direction and took the opportunity to wipe a couple traitorous tears away. “And there was that time I was fucking wiped out of existence. Scott, Lydia, my  _ dad _ forgot me completely. Did you? Hm? Did you wake up one day and suddenl-”

He reached the end of the room and turned back to find Derek not six inches away from him and looking wretched.

“I didn’t,” Derek said with conviction. “I didn’t forget you. Whatever...happened, it didn’t reach this far.”

Stiles bit down on his trembling lips and nods. “It’s been hard.” He huffed a sad laugh. “It’s always been hard. God knows the whole...being possessed thing was no walk in the park. You getting aged down was just... But it was harder, without you. There were so many times I wanted to just walk into the loft and ask you about something, or walk into a fight and see you beside us. So many times I thought, you would have been quicker. You’d have figured things out faster. Fought harder. But you weren’t there and I was  _ so _ okay with that. Really, I was.” Stiles’ eyes are too wide, pleading with Derek to believe him. “I was okay with that because I thought you’d  _ escaped _ it all and I wasn’t about to drag you back into the mess of tragedy and chaos that is Beacon Hills. I thought you were free from that nightmare finally. But you weren’t. You weren’t fucking free of it at all. It wasn’t any better out here past the sunset. So why didn’t you come back? To us?”

Stiles had never felt this raw, this exposed - by the end he was speaking in a hushed whisper - but that was the question. The one that had rested in the back of his mind, biding its time, building on any resentment, the implied rejection, the loneliness it could find until now, when it finally had its desired audience. And Stiles felt like shit for even putting it out there. Derek’s eyes were as glassy as his felt. He looked gutted. In the wake of weeks of torture, it was Stiles who was going to break him. Stiles almost wished that he could take the last five minutes back, but that wouldn’t solve anything.

Instead, he closed those scant six inches of distance and wrapped his arms around Derek like he could leech all the pain he’d caused out of him. He expected, after a speech like that, for this to be a very one-sided hug but in a matter of seconds, Derek’s arms were coming up and encircling Stiles, grasping tighter and tighter until they had to breathe in complementary rhythms because there simply wasn’t room for both of them to breathe in together. 

“I would have come back if you asked,” Derek murmured into his neck.

“I didn’t want you to,” Stiles replied softly, laying his head down Derek’s shoulder, being mindful of the neck burns. “I wanted you to be-”

“-safe, yeah, I got that part,” Derek finished wryly. A chuckle surprised its way out of Stiles and jostled them apart, but they didn’t go far. Stiles could see a small wet patch on Derek’s shirt, but he knew he had a similar patch on his own shoulder. Neither of them mentioned it. “I wanted that for you too.”

Stiles nodded, smiling gently. “We’re full of great intentions.”

“Not so much at communicating though.”

That got an honest-to-god laugh out of Stiles. “No, that we are not. Where would the fun be in that?”

“In a vegetable patch with a cat, apparently.”

Stiles laughed again and smiled fondly. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

They stayed in their bubble for a few more comfortable moments, and Stiles thought if he just closed that distance again, he could fall into Derek’s arms and not leave until the sun went down and came back up. But the mission wasn’t over yet, and he didn’t have the luxury of just...giving in. So with a deep breath - one that made him feel lighter than he had in a while - he gestured towards the table.

“You still need to eat something of actual substance,” he reminded them. “You don’t seem in a hurry to upchuck that honey so the pizza might be okay. Or we can order something else now that you’re awake. Salad. Sandwich. Do they deliver steak? Whatever you want.”

Derek interrupted his ramble by taking one of his hands. The touch was uncertain and light, and it sent waves of gentle electricity from Stiles’ palm to his chest. There was no way Derek couldn’t hear the uptick in his heartbeat.

“Stiles,” Derek began, looking equal parts earnest and lost for words. Stiles squeezed around his hand, feeling Derek’s squeeze back immediately. Then, he shook his head lightly and said simply, heartfeltly, “Thank you.”

Stiles ducked his head and smiled. “Anytime,” he said. “Anywhere.”

A reckless promise, maybe, but it was turning out to be his one constant truth in life. And he was okay with that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 I hope you had a good time! Tumblr link for reblogging [here](http://milenadaniels.tumblr.com/post/164169280383/reckless-but-honest).
> 
> Few notes:
> 
> \- This fic would have been out much earlier because I'd written it out completely right after writing the Derek POV prequel, but it was originally about 6k of soft!Stiles taking care of wounded!Derek which is fantastic...but not really how I think it would actually go down. So I scrapped that and rewrote...this :P I hope it's more realistic but still enjoyable??
> 
> \- I felt myself totally channeling Killjoys for parts of this (specifically the "I would have come back" exchange) :P 
> 
> \- This was meant to be a one-shot and I did end it so it could stand alone, but there's more I want to explore so this may continue.


End file.
